


Silver Lights

by saladhime



Category: League of Legends RPF
Genre: Hotline Miami!AU, M/M, ahaha what if u split ur conscious into 3 dudes and one of them resembled the guy u liked, would that be crazy or what
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:07:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29350926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saladhime/pseuds/saladhime
Summary: Martin has a conversation and picks up after himself.
Relationships: Martin "Wunder" Hansen/Rasmus "Caps" Winther
Kudos: 10





	Silver Lights

**Author's Note:**

> ooooo you guys wanna listen to the hotline miami ost so bad ooooooo (jk....unless???)
> 
> anyways.
> 
> i hope you enjoy the fic and have a great day/night!

Martin stares at the door in front of him. His injuries from the night before have all but vanished (though his hands are stained a deep, crusted red). There is nothing but darkness that surrounds him and he sags his shoulders because he’s here _again._ The single light illuminating the door buzzes with anticipation, the only other movement in this void. It beckons him in, almost mockingly. But there’s really nothing Martin can do about it.

He takes a breath, and pushes open the door.

Suddenly, he’s in a room. It’s dank, musty, and there are flies zipping all around. Papers and dirt from unattended plants litter the floor and all he can think about the beer cans and tomato stains that occupy his apartment’s floor. The beer smell sticking to the carpet or the pile of unsorted mail scattered along his table. Of course, as soon as the thoughts enter, they leave promptly after. 

He’s a guest here, after all.

His entertainers are seated comfortably, each basking in their own dimly colored lights, and each adorning a mask of an animal. Martin’s gut twists into a knot.

_“Oh...it’s you again. It looks like you’ve been quite busy since we last met.”_ The one on the left says. Martin likes this one, the one with the horse mask and illuminated in blue. He forces himself to ignore the fact that he’s wearing the same clothes he found Rasmus in, however. He thinks his name is Mihael, this one.

Martin can see that the one in the middle is about to speak, before the one on the far right, coated in the dingy red light screeches out;

_“Why did you come back here? You’re not a nice person, are you? You make me sick!”_

Martin winces internally. That one....that one Martin likes infinitely less than Mihael. The one with the owl mask hisses and spits at Martin like a dog. He doesn’t clench his fists, but he grits his teeth. He knows that this one’s name is Marcin. And he knows that Marcin is right. He _isn’t_ a nice person. But he too wishes he wasn’t here.

The one in the middle sits smugly, as though he sits on a throne and not a ratty leather recliner. This one usually saves his words for last, the one with a rooster mask and painted in a grungy yellow. This one is Luka. 

Luka claps his hands, and order is restored to the scene. Marcin recoils back into his seat, though Martin can feel the daggers digging into him from behind the mask. Mihael doesn’t move, save for adjusting the strap of his green tank top.

_“Well, it looks like we’re already running out of time. And you’ve barely figured anything out. Hm...how about to jog your memory, I ask you four questions;_

  * _Do you like hurting other people?_


  * _Who is leaving messages on your answering machine?_


  * _Where are you right now?_



_And_

  * _Why are we having this conversation?”_



Luka says, leaning forward ever so slightly, and waves his hand.

Martin hears the smirk in his voice before his vision goes black.

-

Martin gasps and sits up, gasping for breath and feeling as though he would choke with every inhale. His throat burns and he clutches his bedsheets for dear life. He barely processes the noise outside his window, or even of the AC whirring softly in the background. 

He steadied himself, counting _1,2,1,2,_ until he could feel his breaths begin to even out, and he could feel the worn bed sheets in his grip. His throat still burned and his wounds still ached, especially after such sudden movement, but the pain grounded him. It brought him back to here, back _home_.

Once he’d settled himself, Martin ran a shaky hand through his hair and smoothing it out. When he pulled it back, he was relieved to find that there was a lack of the red from his dreams. His hands still shook though, as he mustered the will to step out of bed.

Martin hated those dreams. Those nightmare moments in that room where flies scraped at his skin while Marcin spat at him, Mihael pitied him and Luka judged him. He couldn’t _do_ anything there. He couldn’t dig into Marcin’s eyes with his thumbs like the mobsters he's dealt with so many times before. He couldn’t pump Mihael’s stomach full of lead like he did with those producers. And he sure as _hell_ couldn’t sever Luka’s head from his body like he did to that Biker. 

He was a puppet, to the people who called and left messages, and to the figures that haunt his unconsciousness. 

Martin ignored the straining of his sore muscles as he finally stepped out of bed and yawned. Even if he was still recovering from last night’s outing, at the very least, his headache was gone. 

Glancing behind him, Martin ignored the way his stomach churned at the empty bed next to him and hobbled out into the hallway. There was a crunch under his foot, and Martin hissed, wanting nothing more than to kick the object away, but paused. A beer can. It was one of his many vices that lay upon his floor. Slowly, he bent down to grab it. 

As he stepped into the kitchen illuminated by moonlight outside, he tossed the can of beer into the empty garbage, amongst all the other crap he’d gathered from his floor. He blinked though, at the sight of his pizza last night being in the fridge. He knows _he_ didn’t put it there…

And then he remembers.

_“There’s….there's pizza in the kitchen and it’s pepperoni, I think. Goodnight.”_

When he hobbled his way into the living room, there was an odd warmth blooming in Martin’s chest.

  
Rasmus had _stayed._

**Author's Note:**

> for one it being one of my favorite games i just found out this year that it wasn't the girlfriend cleaning up jacket's apartment throughout the first hotline miami game and that jacket was the one doing it bc she wanted to stay in his home and he wanted her to stay with him and now im in shambles <3


End file.
